It also weeded out some of the guys who weren’t supposed to be there in the first place. If they couldn’t perform trauma care on a farm-raised goat in the quiet comfort of Fort Bragg’s goat lab, how could they possibly deliver any care to their fallen brethren in the heat of battle?
Jasper could see his brother was there with him, in the lab, laid out on an operating table next to one of the bleating goats. Kyle was bleating as well. Bleeding. Bleating. Calling for help.
And then someone was grabbing Jasper. He could feel the pressure, someone wrestling with him. Hands. Voices. Someone shaking him from some faraway place.
He awoke to find Jackson staring down at him. Jasper’s eyes were still unfocused, but slowly bringing the rest of the room’s details into view. Jackson was sitting at the foot of his bed, smiling.
“You were talking,” he said.
“What?” Jasper said groggily. “Was I?”
Jackson nodded.
“What was I saying?”
“Nothing intelligible.”
That was a relief. He’d rather not have Jackson hear him talking about goats, or anything else. Especially details about his brother Kyle.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m just tired.”
“Me too.” Jackson lifted himself off the bed and walked to a nearby chair. He dragged it over and slumped down hard into it with a sigh. “It was a wild night, huh?”
“Yep.” Jasper reached for his phone again. “It was a little more action than I was expecting.” He checked for an internet connection, but it was still down.
“I bet that hacker felt the same way,” said Jackson.
“Any news on him?”
“Nothing yet. We’ll have to talk to some people, once you’re feeling up to it.”
Jasper frowned. He wasn’t particularly excited to “talk to some people.”
“I know, I know,” Jackson said. “But you should probably stay away from active shooters. Just for a day or so.”
“So what’s with the internet here?” asked Jasper, happy to change the subject.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s down.”
Jackson gave him a weird look, scrunching his brows. “I was just using it.” He grabbed his phone, checking it. “I have service. Maybe it’s your phone. It probably got damaged.”
It was a distinct possibility. Jasper checked his phone once again to be sure, swearing under his breath when he saw the Wi-Fi signal bars all lit up.
“Maybe it’s not your phone that’s fucked up,” Jackson laughed. “Maybe it’s your head.”
“I don’t get it . . .The land lines were down, too.” Jasper reached for the phone and heard a dial tone. He hung up.
“Yup,” said Jackson. “Definitely showing some signs of head trauma.”
Maybe he was right. Between his head, the drugs, fragmented or no sleep, and seeing people who apparently weren’t there, like ex-lovers . . . Maybe he imagined the whole no-internet thing. It could have been just another dream, something that came before the bleating goats of Fort Bragg.
Jackson was still smiling. He seemed to find the whole thing very amusing. “And to think, all this time I was worried that you wouldn’t be convincing enough as an undercover patient.”
Jasper stared at him. “So did you come in here and wake me up for a reason?”
“Sure,” he said. “I just wanted to check on you. See if you needed anything.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Jasper. “I’ve really got a hankering for some shitty hospital food. Think you can bring some up?”
“Maybe you should ask your nurse about that one,” Jackson said, checking his phone as compulsively as ever. “I have to get going soon. I just checked on a bunch of things here and now I have to . . .” he looked up at Jasper again, his face easing with sincerity. “But how do you feel, really?”
“I feel fine. I bet I’m totally fine.” Jasper looked down at his brace. “Even this shoulder is not a big deal. I can almost use it.”
“You think you can hold a gun with that?”
“I’m left handed.”
Jackson snorted. “Until they come at you from the right.”
“By the way,” Jasper said. “How am I going to get my piece up here?” He reached over for his duffle bag that Jackson must have brought in, and plopped it onto his lap. “When does the prince get here?”
“Tomorrow.” Jackson pulled the bag out of Jasper’s fumbling hands. “Will you really be able to get around then? It’s okay if you can’t.”
“What do you mean, ‘it’s okay’?”
“I mean, I’ll take you off the assignment. No biggie.”
“Ahuh.”
“You can stay here, take a little break from Fort Bragg.”
Eye rolling was becoming a bit of a habit around Jackson lately. “Tempting.”
“Take a break from all those brown-nosing recruits.”
“I just feel more tired than anything else.”
“And confused, coupled with the occasional hallucination. Involving goats, apparently.”
Nothing got past Jackson. Jasper should have remembered that. To his boss he just shrugged. It wasn’t as if he could deny it.
Jackson sighed and then unzipped the duffel bag. He reached in and pulled out a folded bundle of jeans.
“Oh, you brought my jeans.” He couldn’t wait to get out of the sad excuse for a hospital gown. They must only come in one size and this one barely covered his ass. “How thoughtful.”
“Yeah, and I rolled them up just how you like them.” Jackson plopped the heavy, rolled-up bundle of jeans on top of Jasper’s legs.
“Thank you, really,” Jasper said, his voice quiet now, serious. “But where am I supposed to keep it?”
“If you can’t keep it on you, then stash it under the mattress.” Jackson said it so casually, like it was common knowledge. “Come on, you’ve never hidden a gun in a hospital room before?”
“With the types of hospitals I’m used to, everyone carries a gun. And I’m also usually not a patient, either.”
“Well,” said Jackson, zipping up the bag and standing, “you’ll figure it out, I’m sure. I also left you a laptop. It’s on the table.”
“Thanks,” said Jasper, pulling the bundle close to him. “So, do you think you can wheel me down to the cafeteria?”
“Mmm . . . I don’t think so.”
“What? Why not?”
“We need you to get mobile, on your own, not stuck in some chair.” sad Jackson. “You need to start walking again.”
Jasper stared at him.
“I can bring you a cane if you want.”
Jasper sighed. “I just wanted you to bring up some breakfast.”
“I brought you something much more important than that.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Go ahead, Man, get some exercise. Want me to walk with you?”
“No, it’s okay.” He was probably better off just getting some more sleep.
“Alright,” Jackson pointed to the gun folded within Jasper’s clothes. “Just remember your package there.”
Jasper sat there holding the bundle for a few minutes after Jackson left. He carefully unfolded the clothing, pulling out his Glock 17 and then quickly stuffing it under the mattress.
Handling the gun had made him feel more awake than ever, and so with his weapon safely stashed away, and Jackson having enough time to be out of the hall, Jasper decided to try his legs. The last thing he wanted was an audience.
He carefully lifted himself up, rifling around in the duffle bag for a pair of sweatpants. He slid them on and then slid himself to the edge of the bed and onto his legs. He took a step, his knee and hip throbbing. But as he completed the step and made another, the pain leveled off. He could deal with it. And so he continued to the doorway, checking both ways for Fiona, the figment of his imagination.
12
Fiona
“I told you,” said Wendy, sit
ting across from Fiona at the break-room table. “It’s still happening and no one knows what the hell’s going on.”
Fiona was attempting to concentrate on Wendy’s descriptions of the various bugs and glitches that were increasingly hampering hospital operations. But she couldn’t shake the thought of Jasper—if that even was Jasper and not some doppelganger named Rick—lying in bed just a few floors above her.
But it was him, wasn’t it? They had even made eye contact. She was sure they had.
Or she could be losing her mind. That was always possible.
“It’s starting to get a little scary,” said Wendy. “Has Dr. Wahl talked to you about it?”
“About . . . the glitches?” Fiona tried to ask as if she knew what the hell Wendy was talking about. The glitches. But in truth, she hadn’t even noticed them.
Wendy, in contrast, was looking and sounding as if she’d been describing a premonition for the end of the world. “It’s starting to affect higher priority functions.”
Fiona wasn’t sure what to say, except for an insightful and heartfelt “Uh-oh.” Maybe she should start paying attention. Get some fling from her past off her mind.
“What if they start having trouble with the ventilators?” asked Wendy, her eyes widening.
“Well, aren’t those, like, separated from . . . ?” She didn’t even know how to ask the question. But in her mind somewhere she was sure, somehow, that life-or-death functions like ventilators at least had some safeguards built in. Just like backup generators for when the power goes out.
“It’s crazy,” said Wendy, shaking her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Could it be from power surges or something? I thought we have backups.”
“Oh, it’s something more than power surges,” Wendy said. She fiddled with her necklace, glancing back at the break room’s door.
It was odd to see the veteran nurse so rattled. It stuck with Fiona on her return to work, most notably when she walked by the intensive care units where the beeping sounds of respirators and pressurized air wafted out into the hallway. It sounded so artificial and fragile. The sounds of life hanging in the balance.
Whether or not Wendy’s concerns were valid, Fiona was glad that her sister wasn’t at Lambert Memorial. On top of everything else, she’d lose her mind if she had to worry about every little rumor, or glitch, or brownout, or something as abstract as a computer virus snuffing out her life.
She tried putting it out of her mind, the possibilities, the possible tragedies. But when she turned a corner, she met one head-on.
A doctor had left one of the rooms and was followed by an angry mob of people. Family members, perhaps. Their backs were turned, walking after the doctor, but Fiona could hear the crying in their voices. It must have been some bad news. A doctor’s hardest assignment.
Today, for this doctor, the assignment appeared particularly difficult.
“You did something!” cried a grieving middle-aged woman, clawing at the doctor’s back.
When he turned around, Fiona’s first instinct was to hide, to dash away from the dead eyes of Dr. Wahl.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said in a businesslike tone, like a car insurance agent lamenting a write-off between bites of a sandwich.
“You’re sorry?”
“You did something,” another man said, accusing, pointing a finger.
“I’m sorry,” said Dr Wahl.
Fiona slowed her walk to a dead stop. No need to get too close.
“What happened?” asked the woman. “What happened!?”
“You killed him!” someone else cried.
“I’m so terribly sorry for your loss,” said the doctor. “I . . . I tried everything I—”
“You did something to the machine and then it turned off. So what did you do?”
“I did not.” Dr. Wahl’s face was turning red now.
“We’re going to get a lawyer, and then we’ll—”
“You did something with the machine, I saw you!”
It seemed like the appropriate time for Fiona to duck into a nearby room and escape before he saw her. She checked the bed in the room. It was empty, so she returned to the doorway, clinging to the side and listening to the scuffle that had broken out. She peeked her head out to see several nurses and doctors jumping in to separate the two parties. It was a horrible scene, but Fiona stayed put. She didn’t feel particularly loyal toward Dr. Wahl right now.
And maybe he did screw something up.
“Do we need security?” asked a nervous-sounding nurse. “Do we need security?”
“Let them go,” said Dr. Wahl, attempting to peel off several grieving family members.
“Get off me!”
“Let them go, it’s fine.”
The anger had subsided into quiet anguish, the family now sobbing wretchedly and collapsing in on each other like a busted, wind-ruined tent.
Fiona returned to work with the afternoon’s upsetting events replaying itself in the back of her mind—especially because there had been no closure. Dr. Wahl had shooed everyone away without explaining what had happened. Fiona could already imagine Wendy talking about more technical glitches, her concern undoubtedly growing to a fevered pitch after this last episode. It would be best to avoid Wendy and Dr. Wahl for the time being.
And it would be best to catch up on her rounds.
She had blood work for the increasingly cantankerous Mr. Welsh. Vitals for the two coma patients. A glucose check for Marva. And then there was the infamous room 314. By the time she got around to that room, she had almost forgotten who was supposed to be waiting there for her.
She entered 314 cautiously, half frightened of what she’d find.
This time it was an empty bed. Though it had been made up with a rigid, calculated neatness. It was better work than any nurse she’d ever seen. On the nightstand were several books. There was some clothing folded over the back of a chair. The last clothing of his that she’d remembered was a military jacket and cargo pants strewn across her apartment floor. This time, at the hospital, it was the trappings of a civilian. A black hooded sweatshirt and blue jeans. And this time they were stored away with much more care, folded neatly at the creases. She looked onto the table, inspecting the book spines. Hardcovers. Nonfiction about oil markets and energy geopolitics. Not exactly the light reading that awaited Fiona on her breaks. But, as she recalled, he was not exactly the most lighthearted guy. It was, perhaps, that brooding face of his that had first caught her attention, those serious if not mournful eyes that had pulled her in and kept her there. Kept her face inches away from his in the half light of her apartment. And then her lips on his.
But what was it that kept him here at Lambert Memorial Hospital?
Was he checking up on her?
And if so, was it of his own volition, some crazy desperate attempt to track her down and rekindle something? Or had he become some sort of undercover agent, spying on her on the hospital’s behalf?
Maybe it was much simpler than that. Maybe he was just legitimately hurt. But then why was he out of bed already? She checked his chart. His latest scan results weren’t even back yet. She hoped the imaging equipment wasn’t affected by the glitches, too. That would make her day even worse.
Grimacing at the thought, Fiona turned to leave, and there he was, leaning against the frame of the doorway with a thoroughly satisfied grin.
“Snooping through my things?” he asked.
She was caught. She laughed. “Yeah, a little bit.”
“I went out looking for you.”
“Oh,” she said. Nothing made sense. How did he know she worked there?
“I saw you,” he said with a grin. “You were watching me sleep.”
Caught again.
Part of her wanted to die in embarrassment. But then her brain caught up with her emotions. She was looking at Jasper, in person. He was in front of her. He was real. And suddenly, life seemed a little more worth living.
“So what did you need?” she asked, her voice smoothing out, a calmness returning. “A bed pan? Someone to fluff your pillow?”
He began moving into the room, limping slightly.
“A cane?” Fiona asked.
“No, it’s all good. I’m just a little stiff.”
She watched him shuffle over to her like it was a dream, the imagery taking her back five years. “What happened to you?” She wanted to know what had happened in those five years, what he’d done, and where, and with whom. She wanted to know everything about where his story had gone after her.
“You mean, my arm?” he asked innocently.
“Yes,” she said, settling for the immediate details. Maybe it was best to start slow. “Your arm.”
“Oh, just a little accident.”
“I know,” she said, inspecting his wrist as he approached, taking it gently into her hand. “I asked what happened.”
“Car accident,” he said, his voice cool, almost detached. Yeah, right.
The natural next move would be to slide her hand further up his arm, feeling him, pulling his body and his hips against hers. It was the logical continuation of something that had started five years ago. But she settled instead for a quick and professional examination, something any proper nurse would do.
“I wasn’t sure if it was you at first.” His voice sounded different. It was so close now. Softer. Lower in pitch.
“Me neither,” she said, letting go of his hand.
“I thought it was my medication or something.” He sat on the bed with a sight wince. “But I had a feeling you worked here.” He was smiling again. “You look good.”
“So do you,” said Fiona, “Aside from your shoulder.”
“Nah, it’s nothing.”
“So, Rick, what’s with the fake name?”
“Rick Delaney?”
“Are you on some kind of spy mission?” She figured she’d best just come right out with it and ask. There could be no way that he was really—
DARC Ops: The Complete Series Page 50